Quickies, Vol. XV

Quantum of Supremacy

Quantum of Solace (dir. Marc Forster, 2008) – Finally gave this one the second viewing it clearly needed, after unfairly measuring it against the standard (whether too high or just too different) of Casino Royale. It definitely sat better this time around, held its own more and seemed more like its own story rather than just an episode. An abundance of political content was hard to ignore. While not a bad thing in spirit, when the Bond franchise tries to make humanitarian statements, it feels a little like Starbucks saying they’re giving x% of the profits from one kind of special seasonal bean off to Africa. Also, how is this not influenced in every department by Bourne? Nothing against this new-and-supposedly-improved Bond, but he’s really more Matt Damon than Sean Connery or Roger Moore, isn’t he?

Grinning or wincing?

The Clock (dir. Vincente Minnelli, 1945) – Thanks again, Stanford Theatre. This is kind of a goofy little movie, melodrama at its purest, a musical minus the music. Robert Walker and Judy Garland are a couple fated to fall in love, which they do, and then fated to see the difference between love and romance. Of course, it’s all still very romantic. Aside from a formulaic narrative and some quirky acting, the quintessentially urban camerawork is worthy of praise. Almost seems as if the film hired a cinematographer who was over-qualified for the project. You get a real sense of height and depth. The camera begins and ends the same way: free-floating over crowds, relieving the viewer of the claustrophobia of the characters. It’s a God’s-eye view, or at least a view from the top of a skyscraper, recognizing the comfort that the cinematic audience experiences in contrast to its diegetic subjects. Most of the narrative conflict results from the city drowning out its inhabitants, separating them and crushing them. That the eponymous “clock” functions as the centripetal focus is fitting. It’s only a two-day shore leave, and they’re always at the mercy of time, which seems to tick away faster than it should in the metropolis. The question always seems to be whether they’ll have time, and it’s only when they make themselves and their romance subservient to the clock that they have any success.

"She thinks you're a failure?"

Bottle Rocket (dir. Wes Anderson, 1994) – C’mon, like there’s anything bad about this one. Even Marty Scorsese says it’s completely devoid of pessimism. After more-or-less completing a huge Wes Anderson project that didn’t have room for the beloved first feature, we had to watch it; it was a love-screening. Noticed a couple little edits of the Criterion edition. When Anthony picks up the book during the bookstore robbery, it’s not “Jobs in Government” anymore; it’s some warfare book. And when Bob tells his brother Futureman, “Can I at least have three bucks for gas?” His brother replies, “No, you can’t.” But above all, Bottle Rocket feels way more French New Wave than I ever gave it credit for. Watch some Godard & Truffaut – especially Band of Outsiders, Shoot the Piano Player, Jules and Jim, and even Breathless and then you see their fingerprints all over Anderson’s first feature effort. Jump cuts, close-ups, zoom-outs, barely-audible dialogue, petty crime, criminals on the lam, funny cars, and that overall attitude of taking everything with an enormous grain of salt; the only big difference is Anderson’s delightful disdain for politics, making him more in line with Truffaut than Godard. There are too many beautiful and hilarious lines in this film to pick just one for here…might need to initiate some kind of new series. Yeah, probably.

Splitting headache

Scanners (dir. David Cronenberg, 1981) – After A History of Violence and watching numerous clips of The Brood, not to mention David Spade’s little joke in Tommy Boy, figured it was finally time to watch Scanners. It’s all there. And it’s not just a movie about photo-copying equipment. It’s been said that Cronenberg likes poking at bodies, but with Scanners he’s poking at them from the inside out. What’s truly horrific isn’t being blown up by a grenade or shot at; it’s one’s own brain exploding. While the dialogue, acting, and even narrative of this film is MST3K-worthy, the ideas presented are quite interesting. Much of it seems like an excuse for Cronenberg to investigate his own fear of the body and expose ours at the same time. There is something quite uncanny or unnerving about the body, isn’t there? Those of us who aren’t physicians can only wonder at what’s going on inside at any given moment in any given area. Not unlike Alien‘s great scene, there’s something freakish about our own innards, and our own obliviousness to the fact is probably a result of suppression more than simple ignorance. Scanners is mind over matter, or something like that, except the formula changes direction to expose suppression rather than wallow comfortably in it. Don’t swallow your puke, just blow chunks, is the idea here.

A History of Violence: That’s Good Coffee

Shock and awe, all the way, especially when you’ve been doing mostly 30s and 40s stuff. This is a take-you-for-a-ride kind of film, one that’s deeply offensive on a surface level but so critical of its content, ideologically sound, and masterfully executed that one can’t help but applaud after a viewing. Being anything but fluent in the work of David Cronenberg, it was necessary to interrogate a crony who is. Was told this: bodily obsession and noir elements. Yes, they are certainly there. It’s hard not to think of Out of the Past, with its raging, suppressed or repressed violent past rearing its ugly head into the realm of nostalgic, rural Americana and forcing a return to the dark and the urban. Or, in this case, the urban intrusion into the rural, its compliments to the coffee and the way that Tom himself uses something like coffee to create his own new fantasy world. How can we not also think of David Lynch, particularly a Blue Velvet or a Mulholland Drive? The first frame of A History of Violence has us looking at the façade of a motel (or something) on a hot day with the loud and, yes, violent buzzing of Midwestern insects.

There’s something deeply disconcerting about bugs that can go on for so long at such a volume, to say nothing of their size (they’re as big as baby birds). It’s the sort of sound you don’t often hear in films, but visit the Midwest and parts of the South and boy is it present. It really offsets the visual effect of a peaceful town where “everyone minds their own business” and “we take care of our own,” and all of that. Something sinister is always there in a human individual and a human society, no matter how rural or urban or repressed or liberated. Cronenberg knows this, which is why this film doesn’t contain any flatly virtuous or “good” characters. Everyone is a ticking time bomb that may or may not be jarred enough to detonate. They inflict violence, either on others or on themselves or both, but not only that. They also want to look at the violent aftermath. The camera shows this a number of times, and the camera is complicit in the act of looking at various bloodied and annihilated faces after the consummation of sadistic desire results in a bloodbath. The body is an interesting thing, as Cronenberg observes, and it’s even more intertwined with our past, our memory, our violence than what’s obvious. Ed Harris’ character doesn’t have the luxury that Tom has, pretending that his past doesn’t exist since his body somehow carries no scars. A scar on your face that permanently clouds your eyeball has a way of remaining very present. This film’s structure is also something else. You’ve got gunfights at the beginning, middle, and end. There is a narrative progression to them that opens wide the dual character of Tom/Joey more and more. There’s lovemaking between husband and wife that begins innocent, albeit fantastic, and ends later with sadomasochism that’s equally fantastic (in the sense of a “fantasy,” of course; not “excellent”). The film exposes the lie that often undergirds a subject’s rebirth. Actions are what they are, and they don’t change with time. Such a renewed person is always a split-second from returning with a vengeance to an earlier state. Cronenberg’s attitude in this film is that such a return entails a return to violence and not its opposite. Tom’s final return home leaves everyone in silence and uncertainty. It’s irreversible, which it always was, but now they know it.